


Arnþórr

by CedarTheUnshod



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Archery, Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, F/M, First Meetings, Friendship, Hand Jobs, Hunters & Hunting, Language Barrier, M/M, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pict-Scot Abigail, Pict-Scot John, Sadie Is A Badass, Viking AU, Viking Arthur, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-04-25 09:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22286404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CedarTheUnshod/pseuds/CedarTheUnshod
Summary: His fair skin already had a tinge of gold from the past few days working in the sun. His strong, naked torso was littered with faint scars and a few strange tattoos. His sandy blond hair almost glowed in the sunlight. He stepped cautiously along, barefoot, and murmuring to himself. And he carried a bowl filled with sheep’s blood which he flicked over the neat rows with his fingers.John shook his head, “He’s the strangest man.”Abigail smirked, “Ye have to admit, the crops were better than ever last year. Maybe there is something to his strangeness.”
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/Arthur Morgan, Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston/Arthur Morgan, John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 28
Kudos: 112





	1. Digging For Spoots

**Author's Note:**

> *headdesk*
> 
> Okay, my area of study is the 9th-11th centuries. A part of this period is known as the Viking Age. So...yeah.
> 
> I tried to ignore this idea for over a year, because *no one* asked for Viking Arthur and Scot John & Abigail! But here it is anyways! 
> 
> Please note that my knowledge of Old Norse is self-taught and not completely accurate. Old Icelandic is pretty close to that language and I do borrow from it while writing. 
> 
> I also tried to make as much of this as gender-neutral as I can. This work is not necessarily an accurate representation of what we believe we know of this period but, eh. I hope you enjoy it. They’re just as awkward a thousand years ago as they are in the 19th century.

The sun rose slowly, seeming to climb up out of the ocean. The sky and all of its clouds were touched with rich light. It was a beautiful sight to behold, overwhelming all who looked upon it with colours that could not quite be recreated. 

John walked along the beach, carrying a basket and a small spade. His eyes were only for the sand below his feet as he went, ignoring the sunrise completely. Pretty things weren’t as important as food. 

Halting, he spotted a tiny hole. Bubbles squeezed promisingly out of it, bursting quietly in the sand. Kneeling down, John quickly began to dig. The sand was still cold in the mornings even though Spring had brought warmth to the coast. His fingers were growing numb from the chill. Just one more would do, he told himself.

Quickly, he thrust his arm down the hole he’d dug. Drawing his hand back out he shook wet sand from the spoot he’d caught. It was one of the fatter ones he’d managed in the past hour. Abigail would be pleased and they’d have some decent stew after such a harsh winter. They needed all of their strength as it was time to begin plowing their small field for planting.

He only had a little more time before the tide came back in on this part of the beach, and he wanted to be back at the farm soon. John dropped the spoot in the basket and stood. 

“_Heill!_”

John froze, and looked up. There weren’t usually any other people around for quite some distance. The closest was a family on a farm a bit larger than his and Abigail’s. They traded once in a while. 

But this was a stranger approaching him across the wet sand. 

Where had he come from?

He was so tall. Easily standing taller than John who was not a small man himself. He was broad too, dressed in a linen shirt, fitted trousers and woolen legwraps under what looked like a leather gambeson. His hair was cut in a strange way. Shorn close everywhere but on top where dark blond hair hung down less than a finger’s length. His modest beard was neatly combed. A shield was strapped to his back and a sword and axe hung from his belt. 

John only had a knife, the small spade and his squarehead axe that hung on his own belt. His heart jumped to his throat, and he quickly realized that he was in some danger. If he made a run for it, there was a chance he might not be caught. But he couldn’t risk leading any threats back to his home or to Abigail.

As John reached nervously to his axe.

The man outstretched his hands in a display of peace. And he smiled tentatively and said slowly, “_Góðan morgin!_” 

Unsure of what the stranger had just said, John simply replied, “Hello…?”

But then he saw the big man’s eyes. They were so…_remarkably_ blue. He’d never seen anything like them before.

But then the stranger was speaking again, this time faster and with such excitement that John couldn’t separate his strange words. 

He stared at him with uncertainty. “Sorry. I dinnae ken what yer saying.” He shook his head gently and shrugged his shoulders to attempt to get his words across. This finally slowed the stranger’s talking down. A small wave of frustration came over his face, and he looked down, “_Fyrirgef þú...Ek,_” but then he gave pause.

John followed the gaze of the stranger’s deep blue eyes and found him looking into his basket. Then the bigger man smiled, bright and awed, instantly stealing away John’s breath, “Oh! _Skelfisk!_” 

“Uh,”

He pointed into the basket and said again, “_Skelfisk._”

John couldn’t help but smile as the man suddenly turned about, looking at the sand all around him. It was the childlike glee of seeing something familiar and it was hard to be afraid. He watched as he slipped the shield off of his back and jammed it sticking straight up into the sand with surprising strength. Then he took up John’s small spade, “_Gørvel_,” and set to digging a short distance away. 

John, for his part, shook his head in disbelief at the turn his morning had taken. He had come out to collect the long, thin clams that frequented the beaches, looking forward to the resulting stew. As long as he could keep Abigail away from it, that is. And now he was watching a strange, large man, speaking an unfamiliar language dig for spoots with a borrowed spade.

His eyes fell upon the round shield. It was freshly painted half black and half red. There were faint scars along its face, and dents in the circle of iron in the middle. It was a shield that had seen battle. Water suddenly splashed gently against it.

“_Vér hafa skelfiskur hryggr heima._” The stranger laughed, holding up a spoot, looking around for more.

John glanced at the ocean. “Uh...the tide’s coming in.”

The big man looked over his shoulder at him, blinking questionly. “Hm?”

John pointed out towards the ocean. The water was rolling in, closer and closer to where they were. In a matter of moments, it would be licking at their heels. “The tide.” 

“Oh,” The stranger uttered, standing. They walked back towards the shoreline together, picking up the basket and shield along the way. No longer in danger of getting wet, the two men looked curiously at one another.

The big man cleared his throat and dropped the spoot he’d dug up into John’s basket. Then he held a large, sand-covered hand against his own chest, “_Arnþórr._”

Turning his chin slightly to one side, and shrugging, John tried to indicate for the stranger to repeat himself. 

Understanding, he tapped his chest with his hand, “_Arnþórr._”

It was his name. 

John nodded, “Arth...Arn, uh, Arntor...thor…Arthor.”

He nodded back, smiling patiently, saying again, “Arnþórr.”

The name felt strange in his mouth. But it almost sounded like “Artair” as his Pict father might have said, or “Arthur” as his Northumbrian mother might have said. Holding a hand to his own chest, he said, “John.” 

“...Yawn...” 

John burst out laughing.

Arnþórr smirked, placing his hands on his belt in an easy way. Licking his lips, he tried again, “Yeh...Yon,” but the result was the same. 

This time they laughed together. 

John shook his head. He had never heard such a language or dialect. It wasn’t that they saw many strangers around in general. Perhaps the occasional group of Saxonfolk came North to throw their weight around. Try and settle. And find that the Highlands didn’t agree with them. But this was...new. 

“Where did ye come from?” John asked, pointing at him, raising his hands, and looking around. 

Arnþórr pointed out to sea, “_Aust._” 

That gave John pause. He looked towards the sunrise. Arnþórr had come from the sea. From across the sea. And it hit him.

Tall. Strange clothes and a rocky language. Iron swords, sharpened axes. Round, painted shields with scars of battle on their faces.

Word had traveled of people like this before. The clans this far North hadn’t any worry, for no one was rich. No one was a terribly devout Christian. And they all had a good chuckle at the expense of the Saxonfolk.

But now they were here.

The Northfolk were here. 

“_Vér hafa landnám_,” Arnþórr said, crouching. With his finger, he began to draw in the sand. John watched as the big man drew trees, a fat river with fish, a strange boat, and tents. And people. He pointed off slightly North, “_Nei fjarri._” 

“There are more of ye?” John asked, swallowing. From the drawing, he knew the area where they were camped. Up some ways, a river emptied into the ocean. Further upriver, there was a lake where John would go to fish sometimes. It was close. Far enough for them not to have noticed each other just yet. But still close.

Arnþórr looked back at him, frowning. “Yon?” His pronunciation was still off, but that wasn’t an issue. He had instantly sensed the sudden change and uneasiness in John. 

“More Northfolk…” he murmured, settling his hand on his squarehead axe, looking fearfully in the direction Arnþórr had indicated.

Seeming to recognize that word and the reputation that followed it in this side of the world,  
Arnþórr shook his head, and stood. Reaching into a leather pouch hanging from his belt, he drew out a small linen bag. “_Nei strið. Nei barðagi. Nei víking. Vér landnámamaðr. Vér hús. Steðfesta._” He said, sounding more and more frustrated with each word.

John flinched when Arnþórr grabbed his hand. But then he took the small bag and shook some of the contents out into John’s palm. 

Seeds. 

They were seeds. Some sort of fat, flat bean seed. 

Arnþórr gently let go of John’s hand and took a step back. He pointed to the seeds and then gestured to himself, “_Steðfesta._”

“Yer…farmers.” John said in disbelief, pushing the seeds around in his hand. With rumours he’d heard about Northfolk, it was hard to imagine them as...people. For some time, they’d been the tales of devils, appearing on dragon ships that could endure the ocean and somehow sail up rivers. Bloodthirsty giants who came, stole what they wanted, killed mercilessly and then disappeared into the sea again. 

John mulled it over. If Arnþórr had wished him harm, he could have killed him long before this moment. Fairly easily too. John might have been able to put up a bit of a fight but not for too long. Then Arnþórr could have taken the basket of spoots, and left him there dead on the beach. 

But he didn’t. 

John looked back up at the big man. His blue eyes were solemn and wary, willing John to believe him. To not be afraid of him. He clutched the linen bag of seeds preciously in his hand. 

“_Nyr líf,_” Arnþórr murmured, gesturing widely to the land around them. The lush green of Spring, the beauty of the sunrise.

Smiling softly, John nodded, and made to give back the seeds. But Arnþórr shook his head, reaching out to close John’s fingers around them with his own. “_Góðvili._” 

And with that, the big man smiled, gave a nod and then turned back the way he’d come. John watched him walk away for a long moment before turning back to go back to his own little farm. 

At some point, he paused and looked over his shoulder. Arnþórr had climbed up some rocks just off the beach, and turned back to look at just about the same time. In the distance, he raised an arm, and waved. 

John raised his hand in reply, and then continued on his way. Abigail would never believe him.


	2. A Friendly Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a week since Arnþórr has seen John. Arnþórr decides to go out hunting with a friend, eager to learn more about the land and where John might reside. His friend? She sees right through him of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadie is a dimunitive of Sara. Sara is a name considered Danish, Norwegian, Swedish and Icelandic! So...with that info, and being unable to decide on a suitable Old Norse substitute, she gets to stay Sadie! So there...
> 
> Don’t even get me started on Dutch’s name. I’m honestly going to use other people’s names as little as possible. Just light references. This was mostly just meant to be about Arthur, John and Abigail...so yeah.
> 
> The language barrier is not present here because Sadie and Arthur speak the same language. So no guessing or research required for this chapter! Yay!

“You couldn’t hit a mountain,” Arnþórr snorted, shaking his head, walking over to the grouse he’d just felled. 

Sadie, his hunting companion grumbled, “Shut up,” and trudged past him to try and spot where her arrow might have landed. 

Arnþórr carefully pulled his own arrow from the bird. Gently, he pulled on one of the wings, unfurling it to look at the white, fluffy down. With one finger he stroked the soft red wattle on top of the bird’s head. “There’s grouses here too.”

Sadie grunted noncommittally, peering through the brush, brushing her long blond braid over her shoulder. 

“This place is a lot like home,” he said quietly, looking around at the trees. 

“With any luck, this’ll be our new home,” Sadie sighed, deciding the arrow was a loss, adjusting her quiver to count what she had left. 

Arnþórr picked up the grouse and tied it to his belt, “Come to think of it, I’ve been meaning to ask you,”

“Ask me what?” She grunted defensively, giving the forest one last cursory glance for her lost arrow. 

He wondered for a moment if he should even ask. Based on the look she was giving him, it was too late now. “Why...why did you decide to come with _us_? Not that I’m not glad that you’re here, it’s just...I wouldn’t have thought that helping establish a settlement was something that interested you.”

There was a long pause. Her hard brown eyes drifted through the forest. She worked her jaw, running her calloused fingers along her bowstring. Arnþórr saw her look all faraway and harsh like that before. She was strong, but strength could only do so much after all she’d been through. 

“I just thought...maybe you would have preferred to go raiding this summer,” he said quietly. It was a soft way of saying that he hadn’t expected to see her ever again. The woman was a good fighter, but she had a deathwish. He’d once seen her take three arrows in the back during battle, soaked in Saxon blood and screaming in anguish to the skies. Willing the gods to take her away from the realm her husband no longer lived in. 

And yet she lived. 

“You’re all too lenient with Van der Linde’s crazy ideas,” she finally said, “All his talk of paradise for his people, it always sounded silly to me. Someone had to come along to keep an eye on you fools.” She pulled an arrow from her quiver and nocked it to her bow, leading the way to continue their hunt. 

Arnþórr followed after her, nocking his already bloody arrow. 

“Especially when one of you disappears every morning at the ass crack of dawn to slip off to the beach,” Sadie said, cocking an eyebrow over her shoulder.

In response, Arnþórr only shrugged. 

She rolled her eyes, “I would have killed him.”

“Sure you would have, and then we would have had all of his people hounding us,” Arnþórr snapped back, “We’re trying to settle here, Sadie. Needlessly killing people isn’t going to do us any favors. We could trade with them. Work together.” 

“It’s been a week, and you haven’t seen him. How are you going to trade with people you can’t find?” She scoffed. 

Smirking, Arnþórr pointing down a hill a few meters to their right, “Did you even notice that we’re following a game trail?”

“...Of course I did!”

No, she didn’t. 

To her credit though, she did aggressively shoot down one of the strange reddish birds that they’d spooked from their hiding place a few moments later. Arnþórr managed one as well. 

“Think I can’t hit a mountain now, big man?” She growled triumphantly. 

Snorting, he cocked his head, “Well,”

She elbowed him in the ribs, and looked down the trail. “Think your friend lives nearby?” 

“He was hunting for clams on the beach, and he seemed to know the lake we’re camped at,” Arnþórr shrugged, walking over to pick up the strange birds, “I’d think so.” 

Sadie gestured with her bow, “Think that smoke is him?” 

Arnþórr froze and looked into the distance where she was indicating. Sure enough, there was a line of smoke peeking through the trees some way far down the trail. And if he listened closely, he could hear sheep.

He glanced back at Sadie and started quickly and quietly down the trail, “I’m going to go look.” 

“Hey! You’re not going by yourself.” She called, picking up her bird from the ground, and tying it to her belt as she hurried after her friend. “Arnþórr, hold on. Odin’s eye, wait for me!”


	3. Taking Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I canna believe yer inviting a Northman into our home.” He said to Abigail as they passed her.
> 
> She snorted, and closed the door behind them, “Eh, he’s pretty.” John blushed, quickly pulling his hand away from their guest. 
> 
> Arnþórr glanced between them in confusion, unable to understand what was being said. And for a moment, John was grateful for the language barrier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re back...
> 
> I promise, the good nasty stuff will start soon. I just didn’t feel right jumping right to it, not with all of this plot stuff that’s been given the opportunity to grow in my head for over the course of a year while I steadfastly told myself over and over that I wouldn’t write it...but I’m glad folks seem to be enjoying it!

John walked from the modest field. Turning was nearly complete and soon it would be time for planting. It all might have been easier if he’d been able to borrow the clan’s ox, but the beast was already at work on another small field. He couldn’t wait any longer, so he and Abigail turned the soil with their own tools. The work was hard, but this was the existence that they had chosen. 

After John’s father had died, he’d been raised up in the village below the chieftain’s fort. He was passed around, living with the people his father had pushed away. John knew he’d been a little shite, but the clan still took good care of him. Never beat him, even when he’d done wrong, even when he might have deserved it. Abigail once said that it was because they knew he was hurting, saw the scars his father had left on his body and his heart. 

It was something he’d always struggled with. Feeling like he wasn’t good enough for the clan. Definitely not good enough for Abigail, but she’d married him anyway. Left the village with him to build their own home and their own little farm. They liked being able to make their own decisions, and having their own land. Sure, they still relied on the clan, paid their due to the chieftain each year. But it was freeing. 

He and Abigail were doing pretty well for themselves on their own. 

John went to the well, pulled up a bucket of water and drank deeply. The Spring weather was treating him well. It wasn’t terribly warm, but the worst of the cold had passed. His linen leine, with the sleeves tied back above his elbows, was enough for the temperature. Besides, the exertion of labour had warmed him, and the cool water was a welcome relief. 

Glancing up at the sky, he wondered if he would be able to finish the turning before it rained. The overcast of clouds was looking dark. The air was beginning to smell heavy and wet. It wouldn’t be long before it —

“Yon!” 

Startling, John whipped his head around, and his eyes grew wide.

There was a big, blond man coming down from the forest. He was dressed in an earthy blue linen, a grey woolen hood, fitted trousers and leather shoes. The shirt somehow made his eyes bigger and bluer. Or perhaps it was the excitement in them as he smiled and waved. It was the stranger he’d met on the beach last week. It was Arnþórr. 

John lifted a hand in return. Unsure. But strangely pleased to see him again. He felt a raindrop plop down on the top of his head.

“_Góðan dag,_” Arnþórr greeted, finally reaching him. The shorn hair around his skull had grown back somewhat, fuzzy and fine under the longer lovks on top. He had a quiver and bow strapped to his back, and no shield. He still carried his axe and sword on his belt though, along with two birds. A blackcock and a moorcock. He must have been in the forest hunting and had come across the farm.

“Hello again,” John returned. He watched the big man take in his surroundings. He smiled at the sheep where they grazed as a soft, slow rain began, “_Ek kenna ek hylða smali!” _

_John raised his eyebrows. Arnþórr pointied at the sheep, “_Smali,_baaa.”_

_John snorted, and nodded in understanding, “Uh...smah..._Smali. Smali._. Sheep.”___

_ _ _“S...sheep.” Arnþórr repeated, smiling, “Sheep.” _ _ _

_ _ _John scratched the back of his head as Arnþórr continued looking around. It began to rain harder, the wind rustling through the forest. Meanwhile, Arnþórr sounded like he was complimenting John on his field, staring in curiosity at his round stone, turf and thatch house. Speaking all the while in his strange language. _ _ _

_ _ _Abigail had been worried at first when he’d told her of the Northfolk that had settled nearby. But as he’d described his encounter with Arnþórr, she’d become more optimistic. Especially about the strange seeds._ _ _

_ _ _ _“I’ve never seen a bean like this before. Perhaps if we befriend them, we could trade with them.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Maybe. I have to tell the clan.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _The clan had been wary upon hearing the news. The chieftain sent people to scout the Northfolk’s camp. They believed what John told them, they were settlers. There was opportunity for trade. As well as a possible edge if war were to take place with the Saxons again. It was only a question of how to approach it. _ _ _

_ _ _ _“They could always send ye to talk to them. Ye seemed to get on fine with Art...Arthor?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“We couldn’t understand anything the other said, Abigail.”_ _ _ _

_ _ __“Maybe he thought ye were pretty.” _ She’d smirked, cocking a suggestive eyebrow. John had blushed, _“Abigail.”__ _ _

_ _ __“Did ye think he was pretty? Yer as red as a summer apple.” _She’d teased, having known about that part of him since they’d both kissed Eideard Dunbar out in the barley fields together when they were all about twelve. _ _ _

_ _ __ “Honestly, I didn’t really notice, on account of my wondering if he was going to kill me or not!”_ _ _ _

_ _ _But John was certainly noticing now. _ _ _

_ _ _Arnþórr was only a bit taller than him, and definitely stronger. Hardened by rowing, battle and labour. His clothing was fitted close to his body, the dyed linen woven tightly. He couldn’t help but wonder what was underneath..._ _ _

_ _ _“John! Come inside before ye —”_ _ _

_ _ _John’s heart skipped a beat. _ _ _

_ _ _Abigail had been helping in the field, but with the threat of rain, she’d gone to bring their drying clothing inside. And now, she was standing in the doorway of their house. Frozen. Staring wide-eyed at the two men._ _ _

_ _ _“Oh,” she managed._ _ _

_ _ _John looked at Arnþórr, who was looking over at her in surprise, taking in her critical brown eyes, long dark hair and freckles. He smiled softly and looked at John, “_Ykkar víf?_”_ _ _

_ _ _Clearing his throat, he gestured at the big man, “This is Ar...Arthor. Arnthor.”_ _ _

_ _ _After a moment, she smiled, “Hello. I’m Abigail.”_ _ _

_ _ _“Abi-gail,” Arnþórr repeated, trying the name in his mouth just as he did John’s. _ _ _

_ _ _There was a long quiet moment. _ _ _

_ _ _Eventually, Abigail cocked an eyebrow and leaned against the doorway, “So...are ye two fools going to stand out there in the rain?” _ _ _

_ _ _John swallowed hard._ _ _

_ _ _“Well? Come in before ye catch yer death.” For Arnþórr’s sake, she stepped back and gestured plainly for them to come inside. _ _ _

_ _ _Arnþórr looked uncertainly at John. Before he could think better of it, he gently grasped the big man’s elbow and pulled him towards the entrance. Taking shelter in poor weather was just common sense. _ _ _

_ _ _Inside was warm. The fire was burning brightly. A small table sat on one side, as well as a loom, an area for storage, cooking and a bed. There was space for animals on the other side with a partition. It was modest, and it was home. _ _ _

_ _ _“I canna believe yer inviting a Northman into our home.” He said to Abigail as they passed her._ _ _

_ _ _She snorted, and closed the door behind them, “Eh, he’s pretty.”_ _ _

_ _ _John blushed, quickly pulling his hand away from their guest. _ _ _

_ _ _Arnþórr glanced between them in confusion, unable to understand what was being said. And for a moment, John was grateful for the language barrier. He went about preparing some hot barley while Abigail poured them beer, trying to communicate with him._ _ _

_ _ _She laughed at the face Arnþórr pulled when he tasted it. _ _ _

_ _ _“No?” She asked, shaking her head. _ _ _

_ _ _Arnþórr looked in the cup, and shrugged, “_Munr eða..._” Then he smacked his lips in confusion, “_Korn?_” _ _ _

_ _ _Abigail looked at him expectantly, shrugging. _ _ _

_ _ _“Ehhh, oh!” Arnþórr pointed to one wall where they had a dried bundle of dry grain hanging from their last trip to the village to trade. John feared when Abigail might get the nerve up to actually try making bread again. _ _ _

_ _ _“_Korn_.” Arnþórr said, pointing at the grain._ _ _

_ _ _“_Korn_. Grain. Grain,” Abigail smiled brightly, delighted that there was some connection. _ _ _

_ _ _“Grain.” Arnþórr said. Then he looked in his cup again and pointed into it, “Grain?” _ _ _

_ _ _Abigail nodded excitedly, glancing over at John, “Seems to be going well enough!” _ _ _

_ _ _John heaved a sigh, pouring hot barley into some bowls. “Oh yes,” he grunted sarcastically, “Now we all know each other’s words for sheep and for grain.”_ _ _

_ _ _Abigail shrugged, drinking deeply from her beer, “Ye can be grumpy all ye like, at least sheep and grain are tradable goods.”_ _ _

_ _ _“_Bjórr_,” Arnþórr added, pointing into his cup, “_Gerjað korn, já? Bjórr._” _ _ _

_ _ _Abigail smirked, “_Bjórr._”_ _ _

_ _ _Arnþórr nodded, smiling tightly, “_Illr bjórr...eða bjórr._” And he took another sip with an easy shrug. _ _ _

_ _ _“Beer.” Abigail informed him, and Arnþórr repeated it in good nature. She looked over at John, turning on the bench on her side of the table she’d sat them down at, “Beer, another valuable foodstuff.” She turned back and lifted her cup towards Arnþórr, “And a good way to make friends.”_ _ _

_ _ _The words were lost on Arnþórr, but the gesture was not. He lifted his cup in return and bumped it against hers, “_Skól_.”_ _ _

_ _ _“_Skól._” Abigail laughed, taking a long draught. John finally joined them, serving the hot barley with herbs and his own beer. “Yer having too much fun with this.” _ _ _

_ _ _Suddenly, over the rain, there was a voice that called from outside, “Arnþórr!”_ _ _

_ _ _The three of them froze. _ _ _

_ _ _Arnþórr then placed a hand against his face, and muttered something under his breath. Then he was on his feet and going to the door which he then pulled open. _ _ _

_ _ _And outside was standing a very soaked, and _very_ angry looking woman. Her wool hood was pulled up, and her long blond braid hung out of it as she glared up at Arnþórr. Her shirt, trousers and legwraps clung wetly to her obviously strong body. The sword hanging from her belt lended itself to the fact that she too was a warrior. The bow and arrows slung on her back and the moorcock also hanging from her belt suggested that she’d been out hunting with Arnþórr._ _ _

_ _ _The big man chuckled, “_Fyrirgef, Sadie._”_ _ _

_ _ _The woman worked her jaw, pointing a finger up at him, “_Fyrirgef? Ek vili vega ér, Arnþórr. Ek hafa,_”_ _ _

_ _ _She was interrupted._ _ _

_ _ _“Shite, come in! Please, come in out of the rain,” Abigail exclaimed, coming to Arnþórr’s side to encourage the woman into the house. _ _ _

_ _ _Arnþórr heaved a sigh and closed the door, “Yon. Abi-gail. Sadie.”_ _ _

_ _ _“Sadie? Okay, Sadie, let’s get ye warm and dry,” Abigail fretted, leading her towards the fire. The woman tossed a confused, consternated look at Arnþórr as she was pulled along._ _ _

_ _ _A thought occurred to John and he looked between the Northfolk. Arnþórr noticed and raised his eyebrows questioningly as he sat back down across from him. John didn’t know how to ask with words, so he gestured between the big man and Sadie with a finger. And then raised his own eyebrows. _ _ _

_ _ _Arnþórr paused, looking surprised and then subtly but firmly shook his head. _ _ _

_ _ _Sadie let Abigail hang her hood by the fire to dry and wandered over to the loom. It was a rough thing, ramshackled together out of necessity. Cloth was expensive to trade for. But neither Abigail nor John were much good at weaving. _ _ _

_ _ _Sadie groaned, looking at what had been woven so far. Abigail flushed with embarrassment. Sadie shook her head, “_Arnþórr, gefa mir ykkar kąbar.”__ _ _

_ _ _ _“Hvat?”_ _ _ _

_ _ __“Kąbar. Gefa._” She growled, snapping her fingers at him. _ _ _

_ _ _Heaving a sigh, Arnþórr leaned back a bit to dig in the leather pouch hanging from his belt. And then he produced a fine tooth comb. It was beautifully carved from some sort of antler. When he held it out, Sadie snatched it up roughly. “_Koma._” she said, gesturing for Abigail to join her at the loom, pressing the fibres together with the teeth of the comb._ _ _

_ _ _Arnþórr pressed his lips together, and finally tasted the barley that John had prepared. He knew it was simple with no meat. He’d been planning on slaughtering one of the sheep. _ _ _

_ _ _Still, Arnþórr smiled with a nod, “_Gott. Þakka fyrir._”_ _ _

_ _ __Aye, he is pretty_, John admitted to himself. But that was an easy thing to decide._ _ _

_ _ _He was having trouble dealing with the fact that not one but now two Northfolk were in his house. One was sitting back down across from him at his table, looking at him warmly, drinking his beer and eating his food. And the other was chattering at Abigail in their rocky language, showing her how to properly weave cloth. _ _ _

_ _ _“Yon.” Arnþórr said, gaining his attention. He leaned back from the table again, fiddling at his belt. But then he lifted the blackcock, thr bigger of his two kills, and held it gingerly out to John. _ _ _

_ _ _John tried to refuse, surely they didn’t need it as much as he did. But Arnþórr shook his head, “_Góðvili._” _ _ _

_ _ _There was that word again. The same word he’d said when he’d folded John’s fingers around the strange bean seeds on the beach. He wondered what it meant as he accepted the fowl. “Thank you.” _ _ _

_ _ _“_Þat var ekki,_Yon.” Arnþórr replied._ _ _

_ _ _It was another long moment before the two men realized they were just sitting there, quietly looking at one another. Studying each other. Inquisitively. Softly. Arnþórr cleared his throat, looking down into the bowl of barley. There was a red tint to his cheekbones and ears. He smiled. _ _ _

_ _ _John smiled back, feeling equally as red. _ _ _

_ _ _This was the stuff of frightening stories from England. Giants. Butchers. Monsters who fought with ferocity and without fear of death. John had no illusions. They were more than likely capable at killing. _ _ _

_ _ _But they were still people._ _ _


	4. Intermingling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Usually Arnþórr gave them privacy while they did their own washing, and did his own outside after their work was done. But this time as he went over to the well, Abigail and John exchanged a look. 
> 
> They both wanted him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve taken some artistic liberties and have made educated guesses on some words and phrases. Eh, what else can you do when it comes to a language that very few speak today and those of us who do are fairly well self-taught. 
> 
> I’m pretty sure sex hasn’t changed much in the last few thousands of years...
> 
> Feast your eyes.
> 
> I hope you’re all safe and well!

Two days after his first visit, once the rain finally stopped, Arnþórr was back, helping John with the sheep that he’d been planning to slaughter. What was strange about that visit was that Arnþórr had requested a bowl, indicated by his gesturing with hands cupped together. He used it to collect the sheep’s blood when John cut its throat, murmuring in his language. Afterward, he’d gone out to their field with it, and sprinkled it around the turned, well-watered soil.

John and Abigail had watched him curiously. 

When they asked about it, he smiled and indicated that their crops would grow...better...? He also said the word “Freya” a few times, gesturing proudly to the fields and the skies. A god, Abigail speculated. They’d heard of the Northfolk making sacrifices, they just hadn’t expected it to take place on their farm. 

It was strange, but they weren’t bothered. The Picts had done the same. 

After that, Arnþórr came to visit as frequently as he could. There were periods where he wasn’t able to do so for several days because of the work on his own settlement. John started to go fishing at the lake again at least once a week, specifically during the periods of Arnþórr’s absence. “Just to check on him.” John had maintained, hiding his blush at Abigail’s sly, knowing smile. 

When he did, Arnþórr or Sadie would take time to cone and keep him company. A few times, other Northfolk from their settlement curiously came along to meet him. 

Communication was still rocky at best. But it was clear that they found his clothing, and language strange. John suspected that they sometimes had derisive things to say about him. Arnþórr grumbled and growled threateningly more than once at his people. The other Northfolk for the most part seemed to heed and respect his warnings. At least to his face.

The settlement itself was doing well. They were perhaps one hundred people strong. They’d brought livestock along with them too. Pigs, burly-looking cows, a few large horses and sheep. There were some wolf-like dogs as well. John had even seen some large, long-haired cats. 

Their fields were turned and sown. Someone was always tending to them. The land was lush and fertile. The Northfolk commented on it often. 

They mostly lived in a-framed tents, with beasts carved at their arches. Dragons, wolves, hunting cats, boars, even rabbits. They were building a massive hall of wood, and turf. John had never seen anything like it before. It was long, with an arched roof almost like the underside of an enormous boat. It was a marvel to watch it develop as the weeks passed. At the rate they were building, it would be done before midsummer. A structure like that could certainly house one hundred people and their animals for the winter. 

Despite all of the work Arnþórr was already doing, he often helped with chores around John and Abigail’s farm when he visited.

He helped John fix a part of the thatched roof that had been leaking. Helped fell trees to build a cover for firewood. He helped wattle fencing, sow their field, pull weeds, chop wood, wash clothing and feed the animals. 

Arnþórr taught them a new way to preserve meat by salting it. He taught John how to make meals common amongst his own people. He even introduced them to a fermented drink mostly made from honey that he referred to as “mjǫðr.” It could be sweet. Dry. Brewed with herbs or berries. Abigail and John very much liked it, and it was clear that Arnþórr preferred it over their beer.

They came to find that the big man was also strict about personal hygiene. After a day of strenuous labour, he washed himself wholly, and combed his growing hair and beard. It had been quite a sight the first time after slaughtering that sheep.

He’d pulled up water from the well and had begun stripping off his clothes with a casual air. Not appearing to be uncomfortable as he slowly revealed his naked, muscular form littered with scars and strange tattoos. As well as a decent helping of hair. John had found himself staring, face red. Abigail had been a tad more subtle, cocking an appreciative eyebrow. 

Arnþórr had caught them looking, and smirked at them. He didn’t seem to mind. 

Soon enough he also had John and Abigail bathing much more frequently than they usually did. 

John quickly learned the word “ókræsilegr” because of how often Arnþórr and the other Northfolk teasingly applied it to him after working all day. That was one dig that Arnþórr let his people get away with, chuckling at his expense. He plucked at John’s clothes, tugged gently on his hair, wrinkled his nose and sighed the word for “filthy” while shaking his head. 

The three of them got along well. Better than John would have expected considering how difficult it could be to communicate at times. They were getting better, consuming each others’ languages voraciously. 

With Arnþórr working John and Abigail’s land, in addition to his own responsibilities back at the Northfolk settlement, the man was often exhausted. Two times he fell asleep right at their table after a long day. Eventually they woke him and he wandered back to the settlement in the dark, knowing the way by heart by now.

“We could invite him to stay?” Abigail had leaned down to whisper into John’s ear one night. Riding him. Her husband had gulped audibly, his hands clasping her strong but soft thighs, “_Abby_,” he’d breathed, almost chidingly. 

But the idea lingered between them. 

The two began discussing it in the passing days, being honest with one another. They agreed that they liked Arnþórr. They agreed that he was pretty to look at. And they admitted that they’d imagined themselves in more and more intimate positions with him. They mused on his strength. Whether he might be a brute or a gentle lover. Neither prospect seemed unattractive. The two felt a joint sense of giddy excitement at the possibilities. 

When it finally came to fruition, it was on a rather warm summer evening. 

Usually Arnþórr gave them privacy while they did their own washing, and did his own outside after their work was done. But this time as he went over to the well, Abigail and John exchanged a look. 

They both wanted him. 

Now it was just a matter of whether or not he wanted them as well. 

“Arnþórr,” Abigail called, letting John carry the water into the house. 

The big man paused, having just pulled up washing water for himself and was reaching for his belt. “Já?”

She smiled warmly and tilted her head towards the house, “Will ye come in?” 

For a moment, the big man looked confused. But then his eyebrows went up as the meaning of her invitation dawned on him. He took a minute step forward and hesitated. 

Abigail’s stomach clenched in anticipation. 

Then John appeared at her side. His nervousness was apparent. He bit his lip as Abigail suggestively trailed a hand down his chest, eyes on the big man. 

“If...ye want to,” he said tentatively. 

“Já,” Arnþórr said after a moment, looking at the two of them in a way he hadn’t before. He said slowly in their language, “I want to.”

Abigail smiled softly, hearing John’s breath hitch slightly. She tipped her head inside the house, “Come in then,” and reached out a hand.

Arnþórr approached warily, and settled his large hand into hers. And then they brought him inside.

The water was warming by the fire and Abigail led them close to it. 

John was not quite sure how involved he could be for whatever would happen. It was possible that Arnþórr would only want Abigail, and that John might be nothing more than a spectator. Maybe only there for Abigail’s pleasure. It was hard to tell the man’s inclinations, and not only because of the language barrier. 

Arnþórr for the most part was a quiet, observant man. He took in the things around him and pensively kept a lot to himself. John had never seen him truly angry, but he could only imagine what that would be like. 

He watched as Abigail stepped silently up to the big man. He in turn looked down at her, watching curiously and waiting. Unwilling to do anything that he was not invited to do, as he still was not quite sure of the situation.

Abigail looked over at John and reached for him. Swallowing nervously, he steeled himself, and went to her. She took his hand and set it down upon the Northman’s belt. 

John focused on the long, thick strip of worn leather. Carefully tugging it loose and slipping it out of the ring. Abigail’s hands came around Arnþórr’s middle from behind and took the belt, heavy with the leather pouch, waterskin and knife to lay it on the table. 

Swallowing again, John chanced a look up at the blond’s face. 

He looked surprised. And then his blue eyes seemed to warm with a tenderness. He looked at Abigail and then back at John. 

“Báðr?” He asked in disbelief.

John licked his lips. That word sounded an awful lot like “both” but he couldn’t be sure. He did notice how his breathing had gotten a little harder. Feeling brave, he took the soft hem of Arnþórr’s linen shirt and drew it up. The big man lifted his arms obligingly, his cheekbones looking a little red. 

Abigail knelt down and took off his leather shoes and knitted socks. John bit his lip, and undid the woven belt holding Arnþórr’s linen trousers up. Soon enough, they had the big man naked between them. It wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before. 

This was far more intimate. 

His cock, impressive when soft was growing more and more _interested_.

They bathed him. Tenderly running warm, wet cloth along his skin. Cleaning away the day’s labour with a reverence that was not lost on the Northman. 

Arnþórr took in a deep breath, finally reaching out to touch them. Encouraging them wordlessly from their own clothes. Taking a cloth wet with water and lye for himself to return the favor as best as they would let him. 

He tensed suddenly, gasping softly.

John looked and saw that Abigail had gotten adventurous and wrapped a hand around his cock. Arnþórr looked at her, eyes hooded as she stroked him. She leaned up on her toes, pressing the curves of her body against his. John watched as he tilted his head down and met her. Kissing her with a gentle passion. As if he still wasn’t quite sure if he was allowed, or if this was really happening. 

Then she pulled back, tongue licking at his lip, and looked at John. She beckoned him closer and threaded her fingers through his hair. He shuddered, closing his eyes as she tightened her hold, drawing his head back to expose the long line of his neck. Her intentions were clear enough.

Arnþórr wrapped a strong arm about John’s waist, and kissed hungrily at his throat. John groaned, clutching for purchase at the limbs around him. The big man moaned against him, his hips stuttering up into Abigail’s grip. 

Standing there, naked by the fire, skin dripping with warm water and sweat, the three somehow moved together. Writhed together. Hands discovering, caressing and rubbing at all of the right places. Breathing into each other's kisses, teeth worrying sensitive skin, shivers racing up and down their spines. 

Arnþórr shuddered, as the couple worked his cock and balls in their hands. Kisses and nips peppered his skin anywhere the two could reach. He set his jaw, and groaned through his teeth as he came off, spilling profusely over their insistent fingers. “Ohh, regin,” he rumbled quietly, “Ek vilja þit.” 

“We want ye too,” John breathed, mouthing gently at the big man’s jaw. Gasping when Abigail wrapped her hand around his neglected prick. Arnþórr’s hand came to join hers and he found himself subject to a similar treatment. He whimpered when teeth worried at his throat, hands pulling him closer against the curves and hard lines of muscle. 

John bucked, a wounded sound coming from him as the loose fists around his cock worked him mercilessly. Fingers coiled in his hair, tugging softly, holding him still. In what seemed like seconds and a century, the two had him seeing stars and spilling over their knuckles with a weak cry.

Abigail watched as the Northman leaned in, brushing kisses along her husband’s slack jaw. Murmured into his ear so softly and passionately that she couldn’t make out what was said. John moaned in response. They were both such a distracting sight that she was almost confused when their hungry eyes settled on her in unison. 

She squeaked, suddenly finding herself lifted onto the edge of the table. And then she shuddered, fingers curling into dark hair and blond hair. The two men knelt reverently before her, and took turns licking at her. Sucking gently at her clit. Laving their tongues between her folds. Kissing and nipping softly at her inner thighs. 

With a long sigh, Abigail leaned carefully back to lay herself across the table. Her heels settled on their shoulders, pushing them down against her, subtly guiding their movements. Closing her eyes, she immersed herself in only what she could hear and feel. The soft burn of stubble against her sensitive skin. The crackle of the fire. The stirring of coals as a length of wood collapsed into two pieces. The encouraging, low hums from her own throat. The ragged breath and determined grunts and groans of her husband and their...lover. 

She reached up involuntarily with one hand to cover her eyes, gripping tightly onto a head of hair between her legs. Hips bucking. Out of breath. Heart racing. The pressure and throbbing building up until she was teetering on the edge. Abigail cried out, driven to wave after wave of release, cursing like a true babe of the Pict remnants. 

Only after the hardest of the waves subsided did she let go of the head of hair and puddled bonelessly on the table with a satisfied sound. 

A long sigh of air puffed against her thigh. She could hear one of the men panting like an animal. And John’s low chuckle, “Thought ye were gonna smother him.”

She heard the sound of a tender kiss against skin, and Arnþórr’s low, breathless murmur, “What is...smother?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and/or kudos! Lovely to hear from you!


	5. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the first early harvest in full swing, things have been busy! There’s livestock to tend. Weeds to pull. Food to bring in and prepare. Survival depends on it. But surely, the settlement won’t miss one certain Northman for maybe half an hour? After all, he has only left to seek the favour of the gods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, darlings! Hope everyone’s safe and well! 
> 
> I’m feeling giddy on account of the fact that a lot of bad people are soon to lose their jobs in power, so we celebrate! Consensual, polyamorous sexy times!
> 
> It’s a short one that I wrote it in like ten minutes this morning over my breakfast, but I think you’ll enjoy it. 
> 
> Stay safe out there!

“Ohh, shite,” John groaned, tossing his head back to rest on a firm shoulder.

“Gott, John, gott,” Arnþórr murmured encouragingly into his ear. 

John shivered, swallowing hard at the harsh, shortness of his tongue making the sound of his name. Clearer now, more precise with practice. Not quite the way any of the clan spoke it, but close enough to know exactly whose name he was saying. 

The arm clamped firmly across his chest dipped into the neckhole of his leine, rough fingertips scraping over a nipple. Biting his lip, John’s hips jerked as Arnþórr’s other hand worked his cock furiously in his fist. 

“Arnþórr,” he rasped breathlessly, “I cannae last! I cannae-” He was cut short by his own orgasm. 

“Mmm,” the big man rumbled, watching feverishly as his lover’s spend dripped over his knuckles. Studied it as it fell to the soil in long spurts as John cried out and his body grew taut like a drawn bow. Curling back over the big man’s embrace. He continued softly murmuring, his fingers gently stroking John’s softening length. Holding John through his shudders as his release pooled between his knees where he’d been pulling weeds. 

“Ek lúta ekki, Freya. Ek lúta ekki, Urða.” He whispered reverently, trailing warm, wet kisses from his ear down to his nape, “John hús, ykkar hús. Ár og fríðr. Freya. Urða. Fylgja bjǫð.” 

John pushed Arnþórr’s hand away, his prick feeling oversensitive with the attention. Leaning back, he let his lover take on his weight. He was a bit too out of it to translate, not that he would necessarily have recognized many words. But he _was_ lucid enough to realize that Arnþórr was murmuring reverent, meaningful words.

And he’d mentioned Urða? And Freya, whom he knew by now was a god of the Northfolk. She was mentioned mostly when it came to family, farming...and sometimes even sex...

“Did...did ye just...sacrifice me?” John panting, looking blearily up at the big man who cradled him in his arms.

Arnþórr only smirked. 

After washing up at the well, the Northman kissed John long and deep enough to have him seeing stars. Then he was jogging off up the trail to head back to the settlement. They hadn’t seen him in days. He’d only been able to sneak off for a short while today as the first harvest was in full and he was needed. 

John watched him go, his body relaxed from the release. Allowed himself to run his eyes down the linen-swathed form disappearing into the woods. Broad shoulders, sweat pooling meekly at the small of his back, taut arse, and long, thick…_legs_.

He splashed cool well water on his face under the noon sun to right himself. The randy bastard had soft-footed up behind him while he’d been working. Scared him near half to death. 

_Made up for it though, he did._ John thought smugly to himself, basking in the aftermath of Arnþórr’s skilled, and sorely missed hands. 

John walked over to the house on weak knees to take some food and respite from the heat before returning to work. Once inside, he found Abigail dozing in their bed, her leine rucked up around her thighs. 

Taking some water, he sunk down on the edge of the bed and gently brushed her mussed hair back from her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled softly up at him. Then she languidly stretched her arms above her head, her feet reaching towards the end of the bed. 

John watching the strength of her limbs flex appreciatively. Her skin where it showed a little tan from the few days of full sun without clouds. Dirt on her feet, under her nails and smudged on her cheek, just like him. 

Settling with a long, satisfied sigh, she murmured, “He get ye too, eh?”

John nodded, offering her the water, “Snuck up behind me in the field. Dinnae hear him. Too soft-footed for a giant.” 

She hummed as she drank deeply, “Aye. Came up behind me after I brought the parsnips inside.” She gestured to the basket of fat, pale roots they’d harvested that morning sitting on the table. “Kissed me, knelt down, pushed up me leine and put that damned mouth on me.” 

“Tossed me off in the beans,” then his brow furrowed indignantly, “Bastard sacrificed me to Freya!”

Abigail let out a bark of laughter, “Aye? Me too!”

John shook his head, “Damned harvest better be the best we ere had.”


	6. Courting Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming down from the trees at the edges of the field was a group of strangers. Scots. Some dressed in colours richer than he’d ever seen John and Abigail wear. Arnþórr could see three or four horses, and maybe ten or so people on foot, following along, carrying packs and wattled baskets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings!
> 
> I'm gonna level with ya and just say that I'm flying by the seat of my pants on this story. It was gonna be a series of historical, sexy drabbles. A fun outlet for my historical research hobbies. A way to practice my Old Norse, through which I am mostly self-taught, and therefore not 100% accurate, and I hope I look back on this one day and chuckle at my rudimentary attempts. 
> 
> And now? Welp...
> 
> Also, for any Scottish and Gaelic folks, I am so, SO sorry. Scottish Gaelic is not my historical wheelhouse. I'm trying though. 
> 
> Kieran, Bill and Charles join the fic! Kieran as a Gael, Bill as a Northman, and Charles is himself. Ya know, because the Northfolk got around, and a person of colour of his genetics isn't unheard of in their society. Had him join up in Frankia, cuz ya know, Charlemagne...Charles. Eh. And Hosea is a biblical name...Northfolk got around and absorbed a lot of cultures...I dunno. Dutch? Well, heck, no excuse there.
> 
> Stay safe everyone! Drink water, eat food, take your meds and have fun!

Lithasblot was here. Finally and yet too quickly. The work accompanying the first harvest had the settlement boisterous with activity. Preparation of food, drink, and putting the last touches on the boathouse to make ready for the celebration and feast. Come winter, It would house the majority of the settlement, their livestock and two of the ships. The third ship would be leaving in a month or so to head back East to winter there. 

The main few had been selected to sail, it was just a matter of filling a few oar benches. 

“Heh, careful you don’t _slip!_”

“Ahh! Why would you do that?!”

Arnþórr heaved a sigh, thinking of someone who he’d gladly volunteer. “Vilhelmson! Will you leave the boy alone? At least until we get this last plank nailed in?” 

Cíaran wasn’t exactly a boy, but he was young and new enough to the group that he was often the butt of jokes. They’d picked him up during a winter skirmish to reclaim stolen territory back across the sea. He was a Gael, taken as a thrall years ago and severely mistreated by his Earl. Arnþórr had shown him mercy when the boy had saved his life and allowed him to come away with his people. 

At times Arnþórr wondered if it was truly a mercy.

He had considered the debt Cíaran had incurred to him for being spared his life paid back in full. After all, throwing and sinking an axe in the belly of a man intent on parting Arnþórr’s head from his prone body was no small feat. Still, the boy held a low position in their society. Not exactly a thrall anymore, no, but still not a freeman. 

At least he was a hard worker and he could fight, so he was useful. He even seemed to be familiar with some of the words of the people of this land. He was from a place he called Eire, but it seemed that his peoples shared some of their language with the peoples on the Western side of this island. He took advantage of that, and chatted almost daily with him, learning words to better communicate.

Despite doing his best to keep his head down, Cíaran had to endure the nearly constant ribbing and bullying from folks. Especially from Vilhelmson. A man easily capable of meanness and violence, yet not the worst of the ragtag group under Van der Linde’s colours. Vilhemson who was currently hiding a snicker in his beard as the Celt helped pull up the last heavy roofing plank. Skinned, cut down and still green. Mouldable. Perfect. And nearly dropped one end when Vilhelmson nudged him into losing his balance.

“I will push you both off of this roof! Stop it!” Arnþórr growled, grabbing the boy’s scruff to right him, and pulling his end of the plank to safety. 

The sun was out. It had been out for three days in succession. It was warm enough that there was sweat rolling down liberally between his shoulders. Climbing up and down from the roof of the boathouse all morning was strenuous work. The majority of them had shed access clothing, their skin already having already grown used to the heat. 

He heard a low chuckle behind him. Almost imperceptible, but there. Rolling his eyes, he carefully turned to straddle the roof’s arch, and untied his rope around the plank. 

“Shut up, Charles, I’m trying to be intimidating.” 

The man in front of him now was broad, dark-skinned, with long black hair. A rare sight, but certainly something that vast travelers such as themselves occasionally experienced. Although, Charles, whose parents both came from distant lands, might have done just as much traveling on his own. Willingly, he’d joined up with them last summer during a raid to Frankia. The man was quiet, observant, and respected. And once in a while, witty. 

“You are _very_ intimidating,” Charles smirked, carefully placing his end of the plank.

“I will throw you off this roof too,” Arnþórr threatened idly, carefully placing a nail. 

“Arnþórr!” came a distant shout.

Groaning, he lowered his hammer, “What now?” 

Charles nodded over his shoulder, “I think it has something to do with that.” 

Cocking an inquisitive eyebrow, Arnþórr turned to look. And was surprised at what he saw. 

Coming down from the trees at the edges of the field was a group of strangers. Scots. Dressed in colours richer than he’d ever seen John and Abigail wear. Arnþórr could see three or four horses, and maybe ten or so people on foot, following along, carrying packs and wattled baskets. 

“Arnþórr!” came the shout again. 

Looking away from the approaching party, Arnþórr spotted Sadie, running towards the boathouse, waving her arms. She pointed towards the strangers, “John and Abigail are with them! Van der Linde wants you and the Gael to translate!” 

Arnþórr looked over his shoulder at Cíaran. The boy glanced at him nervously. 

“Come on.” 

They carefully climbed down, letting their places on the roof be reluctantly taken. The settlement was somehow filled with more excitement. Subdued excitement, ready for a fight just in case, but still excitement. 

Arnþórr felt it in him as well. He picked up his shirt where he’d laid it over a bit of wattled fencing. For a moment, he thought of the appraising eyes of his lovers. Gray-blue for Abigail and brown for John. He smiled silently to himself, and slung his shirt over his shoulder. 

The settlement had been founded on the idea that every karl was equal. They would make their decisions as a group. Still, there was still a chain of command. Dutch was first to speak, first to present his ideas and decisions, and listened most to Hosea, his second. He’d been raving about paradise for as long as Arnþórr had known him. He was easy to follow. People sometimes had their reservations about the man, but so far, those who followed him this summer lived in high morale. 

The nearby village and fort had been scouted a week after Arnþórr had met John on the beach. Hosea had made the suggestion that they all should let the natives approach them first. Be patient. Pose no threat. Sure, it hadn’t stopped Arnþórr’s hikes over to the Marston’s homestead. Hosea hadn’t seemed to mind. He even seemed glad to see John visit the lake to fish. Talked with him a few times, as best as they could of course with Arnþórr translating. 

Arnþórr realized that this had been the old man’s plan all along. Let him get familiar with some of the clan, get them comfortable with their presence, and sooner or later the others would follow along. To meet. To eat and drink. To _trade_. 

Hoping for the best, he walked with Cíaran to Dutch’s tent. 

The elder man was throwing on his best shirt. A deep black, with pale thread trailing herringbone along the cuffs, hem and keyhole neckline. Hosea was sitting on their cot, casually sliding the man’s sword onto his most ornately patterned and dyed belt. 

Arnþórr frowned upon entering, familiar with the routine of his adoptive fathers, “You are not going to fight them are you?” 

Dutch chortled, “Just showing our strength, my boy. If they have come to meet and trade, they will be welcome. If they have come to sow trouble, we will show them that we are not to be troubled.” 

Hosea rolled his eyes, and stood up to loop Dutch’s belt around his waist, “It will be fine, son. There is no reason to worry.”

* * *

The chieftain was an older man dressed in a dark green leine, gold stitches looped around the hem, neckline and cuffs of his wide sleeves. His grey and brown hair hung over his shoulders, heavy with waves and a couple of braids tied back out of his face. He rode stoutly atop a gray spotted mare and a leaf-bladed sword hung sheathed in dyed black leather on the right side of his belt. It was a hefty weapon with a russet hilt with rivets attaching it to a shaped handle of bone. The man looked like he knew well how to use it and despite his age, was still strong enough to do so. 

John and Abigail had told him of him. Eanraig MacFhionnlaigh. A man who’d taken good care of his people. Fought fiercely. And gave the Marstons a chance to farm their own land. They afforded him wariness and respect, so Arnþórr would strive to do the same. 

The horse beside MacFhionnlaigh was the colour of cream with braids in his mane. The rider was a woman, a few years younger than the chief, dressed in a longer dark green leine, similar in golden embellishments. Her greying red hair was long and filled with braids, pinned and swinging free. This had to be Caoihme, their chieftain’s lady. She carried a dagger and an _axe_ on her belt. By the width of her shoulders, it looked like she could use it. Arnþórr immediately liked her. 

The other two horses were chestnuts with varying blazes of white on their long faces. The riders were men, dressed in short leines of a grayer green, carrying each a sword and bow and looking competent enough to use them. 

The folks on foot were each wearing fairly natural colours, carrying tradable goods. The whole party finally came to a stop when they reached the gate to the settlement. And for a long moment, there was silence as each side took in the other. Arnþórr stepped up next to Dutch, and murmured that he should say something. 

Taking the cue, his adoptive father took a step forward and spread his arms, “Welcome, friends!”

The chieftain tilted his head down very slightly. Immediately, John appeared from the crowd of people on foot, a couple of hides rolled and tied to his back. He spoke quietly up to the chieftain, obviously translating. 

The man smiled, and then swung a leg over his horse, dismounting. He assisted his lady down from her horse before taking a step forward, her hand held gently in his. John followed close, just behind MacFhionnlaigh.

“Guid efternuin, freends! Ah’m heidman MacFhionnlaigh an this be ma leddy. We’v aw brochten guids tae tred for tae shaw oor myntin guidwill.” 

Arnþórr wet his lips and then began to translate quietly to Dutch as best as he could, “He says good afternoon. He introduced himself as Chieftain MacFhionnlaigh and that woman is his lady. They’ve brought things to trade. They intend goodwill.” 

Dutch nodded, looking into MacFhionnlaigh’s eyes, and reached out a hand. The man glanced at it, and took it without fear. The two men smiled at one another. Dutch said, “Please, come join us. We will see what you have to trade. We will talk, and share food and drink.” 

The chieftain tilted his ear back to John, listening to his translation. 

Arnþórr looked past the chieftain and into the little crowd of Scots. He spotted Abigail, and caught her eye. She smiled warmly at him, and very obviously looked him up and down. Taking in his half-nakedness, the sweat drying on his dirty limbs. 

He found himself hoping that the visiting party would stay for Lithasblot. For the purposes of securing allies, of course.

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise! Northfolk were farmers! “Viking” means “to raid” or “to pirate,” and they didn’t refer to themselves as such. 
> 
> Comment and/or kudos!  
Lovely to hear from you!


End file.
